What if when we read a book we do not just enrich our own lives by overlapping sevral other lives to our own? What if that’s not the entire bargain? We generally believe that by reading a book we have access to a new world, we take the opportunity to experience destinies decided by writers which we will maybe never cut out for ourselves.
But what if we stop to think that when we read we are actually giving up a part of our own lifetime in order to peruse somebody’s works? Even if just a couple of hours, we just rip them from our own timeline and offer them, willingly and passionately, sometimes to a person who is long gone. It is similar to a sacrifice. On the altar of books, on the altar of another human’s thoughts, feelings and imagination, we serenely dispatch our hourglass sand.
Mind, I do not consider this a mistake. I believe this is the way that things are and should be. It just occurred to me that this is truly what a writer’s immortality refers to. The writer is allowed to live through his/her work because we surrender small portions of our lives so that their thoughts be thought once more, their ideas resurfaced. It is a logical give-and-take deal and it is comforting to know that immortality does not come from above, but it is everywhere among us. Immortality is achieved by sharing.